


To the Birds

by Nasyat



Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, Elements Of German Speech, Kissing, M/M, Poetry, Stuffed Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wood plays the role of the red balloon. A chaotic poem of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Birds

"Nevertheless,  
the shallow are the pith and marrow  
                                                        of all  
       retrogress,"  
thinks Wood, as he clings to the wall  
                         akin to a pale shadow.  
           He walks  
past the clocks,  
the bulletin board,  
and into the ward  
by stealth, like a thief.  
                            "As if  
I weren't one", a bitter thought, albeit true.  
     A soaring leap,  
                                  and, crowned with rue,  
he falls in a heap  
                             on the bed,  
winged by the aimed glare  
                                   midair.  
                                    There,  
sprawled under the spread,  
     lies the turtle.  
The moon, hanging low,  
                   lits  
the toys in its  
   milk and water  
                                 glow;  
             the turtle  
gloomily chortles,  
      and turns on his side,  
away from the stupefied  
          raven.  
Wood utters a sigh,  
                    so nigh,  
and, driven  
               by wring  
                        of the heart,  
touches his wing  
                to the milky-  
white stripe, like those on the race  
                                     cars,  
                                     bar  
being woven from silk  
threads and pulling apart  
                     from the soft carapace.  
     "Dub…" He senses  
how the turtle tenses,  
                                                              dreary  
              eyes gleaming with silent inquiry,  
and the raven feels denser than mercury.  
"Being disordered is not an excuse  
                for my _abscheulich_ abuse  
     of your trust,"  
    he croaks,  
"but I coax  
you… You must…"  
  He stumbles,  
and his half-ruined facade  
                                glissades  
and crumbles  
under the gaze  
     that is grazed  
by the subtlest smile  
                         in exile  
            in the corners.  
                               Absently,  
                        Wood  
strokes the adorner  
of his faux fur hood,  
as Dub speaks, very gently,  
"I am glad you no longer  
strive for might  
                       by wrong or  
                   right,  
or squander hollow  
vows  
            of salvation.  
        Do you wallow  
in self-resignation  
now?"  
       Wood sways,  
as if ready to fall,  
and quietly says,  
     "…Don't we all?"  
A renegade smile slips  
              onto Dub's lips;  
he turns to the other toy,  
and apace  
     his face  
      gets framed with coy  
wings of the craving  
                         raven,  
      who  
speaks with gasps, in a twitter,  
                                      _"Ein Zittern_  
_bist du,_  
_das blendendes Licht;_  
_ich wünsche in dich_  
_zu_  
_auflösen."_  
Dub takes in  
the devil's dozen  
     of foreign  
                                     words  
that flick through the cords  
                     of his soul,  
heart burning like coal  
                                                      in his chest.  
_"Du platzt mich an den Nähten, und lässt_  
_meine Füllung zu Matsch_  
_werden."_  
The turtle  
holds a pause succinctly  
and then  
       utters  
                            distinctly,  
       "I figured that much."  
     Wood gives a start,  
and so does his heart,  
increasing its pace.  
_"Sprichst du_  
_Deutsch?"_  
With a smile, Dub lets the raven encroach  
 his personal space.  
"I don't need to,"  
                         he says, and,  
under his breath,  
"Your fabric is softer than  
the underside of a violet's leaf.  
Good  
                                             grief,  
Wood,  
you'll be  
              the death  
     of me."  
         And their beaks clash together,  
   releasing the mind from the tethers  
of notions like common sense or morality,  
                                     and the sullen reality  
       melts into the hot  
whiteness, more euphoric than ether,  
   
that ruptures to nought  
with a grunting noise,  
                 as the toys  
are torn away from each other  
by the rough hands of the nurse as  
she grasps Wood and storms out,  
                                muttering curses.  
                                             Without,  
     Dub stares at the slammed door  
          dully,  
           fully  
backtracked to where he was before  
the moment of passion,  
and slowly  
                                           immerses  
              into depression.

***

The golden ball on a string  
                                     swings,  
and, once again, Dub sinks into the ocean  
in a tall-case clock.  
But then he looks up, and stirring emotions  
                      clog  
    his throat,  
         as he sees  
       a circling flock  
of ravens fly  
in the remote  
                sky.  
Dub wages a struggle,  
and finally frees  
 himself and a bubble  
                                        of air.  
The water envelops his bare  
body, and up he floats -  
                   to the birds.


End file.
